


Starting from Scratch

by NonoLeMog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonoLeMog/pseuds/NonoLeMog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Zola is no longer able to take care of his pet project, HYDRA has to find a new mechanic for the Winter Soldier. But there aren't that many people familiar with the arc reactor technology out there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the [winterironbang](http://winterironbang.tumblr.com/); [art](http://darkly-stark.tumblr.com/post/127819443510/when-zola-is-no-longer-able-to-take-care-of-his) is from [darkly-stark](http://darkly-stark.tumblr.com/). No beta, so sorry if I made mistakes, please tell me about them...
> 
> As usual, concrits welcome!

“We need a mechanic to replace Zola,” his handler said one day.

The asset did not react. They wouldn't send him out in his state, with his arm wrecked like it was, and he didn't care about anything that wasn't the next mission.

He still didn't care when, two days later, a glassy-eyed young man sat beside him and started repairing his arm.

Though he did notice that his new arm was much more responsive and sensitive than the previous one. And that the repairs hadn't hurt at all, unlike... Unlike when? His mind was providing him with pictures of a small, bespectacled man, but it was lacking context.

He soon stopped thinking about it. After all, if it really was important, his handlers would tell him about it.

  


  


“Man, I got _wasted_ yesterday, I can't remember a thing...” Tony moaned, wincing at the monstrous headache he was nursing.

Rhodey barely answered besides a weak groan. At least _he_ had woken up next to someone else, so he had had some fun before crashing... While Tony, who had no idea how he had managed to go back to his room, had done so alone.

Well, he _was_ only fifteen, so most girls tended to laugh at him and call him cute, but he would do better next time.

  


* * *

  


A few months later, Rhodey spent what should have been a fun night looking for his best friend, who had vanished after two drinks. The next morning, he found Tony snoring in his bed. Later, when asked, the teenager was unable to explain why he had left or how he had found his way back to their room: he couldn't remember anything after their arrival at the bar.

  


  


The asset felt... satisfied. His arm was faster than it had ever been, and the constant ache around his shoulder had significantly decreased since his last upgrade. The new mechanic – how did he know that the mechanic was new, he had no idea – was good at what he did.

And he was careful. The asset knew that his well-being was not important, but he couldn't help thinking that the less the repairs hurt, the more efficient he would be in the field.

At least, that's how he would justify it if anyone asked for his opinion.

Fortunately, no one ever did.

  


* * *

  


“For god's sake, you couldn't have chosen someone less conspicuous? Do you know how hard he is to get a hand on?” the handler hissed.

The doctor shrugged, unapologetic, and answered, “we needed a very specific skill set, it was him or his father. The boy is good at what he does, and not many people are as familiar as he is with the arc technology.”

Strapped into his chair, the asset didn't turn his head, but his attention perked up. They were talking about his mechanic, he was sure of it.

He had seen the boy at least four times – his memory was unreliable at best – and he already knew that when the kid was there, it meant that he wasn't going to be in pain for a little while. And the boy always acted strangely with the asset, as if he cared about not hurting him... He was _nice_. Well, as nice as anyone could be towards a tool.

And, though he would deny it, the asset enjoyed the multiple brush of skin against his shoulder and his ribs. The people who usually saw to his basic needs were always clinical, careful to touch him as little as possible, and when they did, more than half the time, it was to hurt him. But the mechanic didn't have this kind of compunctions, and spent a good part of his time with the soldier leaning against him, or stretching above him to reach his tools, or even simply tapping his fingers against the soldier's thigh.

It wasn't necessary, but the occasional contact made the asset's skin tingle in a way he had forgotten he was able to feel.

And if his handler was rambling about how difficult it was to get the boy to come, it meant that the asset would see him soon.

The asset closed his eyes, his lips twitching into something that could almost have been called a smile.

  


  


Tony was starting to get worried. He had no memory of the night before. It wasn't the first time: in the last few months alone, he could count at least six parties after which he had woken up unable to remember anything. But this time, it should have been different: Rhodey, who had genuinely thought that Tony had been kidnaped last time, had made him promise that he would control his drinking.

Had someone spiked his drink?

But apart from a huge headache, which was usual for a hangover, he felt fine. No bruises, his clothes were clean – cleaner than they should have been, now that he was thinking about it, they should have smelled much more like sweat – and he had woken up in his own bed, which was really nice.

So what? Someone had drugged him while he was dancing, cleaned his clothes, and brought him back to his room? It made no sense. He could think of quite a few reasons why someone might want to kidnap him, but none of them would have left him in such a good state.

Maybe he had just mistaken someone else's drink for his. He was still a bit of a lightweight, after all: a full glass of vodka could have knocked him out much faster than he would have expected. His father's paranoia had just started rubbing on him...

  


* * *

  


“What's happening?!” the handler growled, his angry gesture encompassing the whole scene set in front of him.

More specifically, the soldier knew that he was referring to the mechanic ( _his_ mechanic), who should have been repairing the arm like he usually did, and instead was plastered against his side, his face hidden in the soldier's neck.

The doctors following the handler all took a step back.

“We changed slightly the drug cocktail that we were using to ensure his compliance,” one of them – braver or more stupid than the others – eventually said. “It was supposed to give him a boost so that he could work faster, but it reacted with other drugs in a way that we hadn't predicted...”

The handler was seething. The soldier could understand why: in the state he was in, the mechanic was of absolutely no use to them, and by the time he would sober up, they'd have to send him back home. All in all, it was a huge waste of time.

Now, if the soldier only had his handler's best interest in mind, he would have been angry, perhaps he would even have attacked the scientists to punish them. But there was always this small part in him that delighted in any skin contact from anyone, but especially from the mechanic, who had never hurt him. It was a bug in his programming, a weakness that should have been eliminated, and he should have reported it so that the doctors could fix him the next time they put him in the chair.

He didn't; instead, he leaned into the other man, turning his head slightly to give him a better access to his neck. And, for some reason, this small disobedience tasted like a victory.

  


* * *

  


Tony was utterly _smashed_.

Well, for once he had an excuse – not that he really needed one, but it would probably get Obie off his back for a while: he was pretty sure that getting black-out drunk was a natural part of mourning your parents who had apparently decided that a car crash was the perfect way to go, _what the hell dad, were you drunk, you were supposed to be a fucking good driver!_

As sure as he could be when he couldn't even stand upright, anyway.

The house felt so _empty_ now; his new AI project wouldn't be ready for another few months, but he was going to move to California as soon as it was. No use staying in a place so full of ghosts.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of footsteps going down the stairs that led to the workshop. Obie? No, unless he had passed out without realizing it,Obie was still making arrangements for the funerals. Besides, Tony was pretty sure that there were several people in the staircase.

Although he knew that drinking had on occasion made him see double. Could it also make him hear double?

A face appeared in his visual field. Not someone he knew. Weird.

He should probably have been more worried, but couldn't muster the energy to care.

“We're too late,” the face said, “he already completely wasted. We can't use the formula, it would kill him...”

“You heard the boss,” someone answered on his left, “they need him tonight. The soldier needs to be put back under as soon as possible.”

The one who was in front of Tony shrugged.

“We can bring him back like that, too. I doubt that he'll remember us tomorrow,” he suggested.

Tony, who wasn't paying enough attention to them to understand what they were talking about, grunted when he felt himself lurch forward. A confusing second later, he was dangling over someone's shoulder.

The person under him only took a few steps – which were _not_ nice for his stomach – before he blacked out.

  


When Tony woke up, he realized pretty soon that something was very wrong.

Something was stuck in his arm; with his eyes slitted open, he noted that it looked like an IV tube. That in itself wasn't alarming: combined with the fluorescent lighting, it could have meant that he was in a hospital (for a given value of not alarming, of course). Besides, it explained why his hangover wasn't killing him.

But when he tried to move, he realized that not only he wasn't lying in a bed, but that he was strapped down on a padded chair, and that he had some seriously huge metal restraints clamped around his limb.

That... didn't sounds like a hospital at all.

Something moved on his right. Turning his head and squinting, he saw a middle-aged, bespectacled man wearing a white coat. A doctor, maybe? Tony couldn't make sense of the situation.

Apparently, the other man had noticed that he was waking up.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” he started with a smile so obviously fake that it made Tony want to punch him in the face (and Tony was used to fake smiles). “You've been unconscious for quite some time. How do you feel?”

“Where are we and what am I doing here?” Tony asked, completely ignoring the question. He didn't have the time to play nice. Had he been kidnaped? It looked like a kidnapping. God, Obie was going to be so _mad_.

The doctor sighed. “I asked you a question, Mr. Stark. But if you really need to know, we just have a favor to ask from you. Rest assured that once you have completed it, we will send you back home.”

Riiiiiiight. Definitely a kidnapping, then... They didn't seem to be after money – or he wouldn't have been involved in the negotiations – but it wouldn't be the first time someone was after his intellect.

He had always thought that this kind of kidnappings made no sense. Yes, his involvement with Stark Industries R&D was widely publicized, but he wasn't the only one working on SI designs, and he was by far the most heavily protected, while any of the others R&D engineers could do as much as he did.

Not that he wished that they were kidnaped in his place – or that anyone got kidnaped at all – but being the only target did grow tiresome after a while...

“If you're after Stark Industries tech, you need to understand that at this point, I'm no longer really involved in their designs, I just approve them for production. I probably won't be able to help you,” he lied. It would almost certainly not work, but no harm in-

His thoughts were brutally interrupted by the sudden contraction of every single muscle in his body – or at least that's what it felt like – combined with a bright, burning sensation in his limbs. _Electric choc_ , his mind helpfully supplied after he got his breath back. And a strong one at that: he was pretty sure that his heart had skipped a beat.

“Don't be difficult,” the doctor said, a hint of annoyance piercing under his polite demeanor, “I'm sure that you'll find a way to help. Are you going to cooperate, or will you keep playing dumb?”

Right. Not fooled, then.

Trying to convince himself that he was only reacting rationally, that he wasn't afraid of his captor, Tony forced out from behind gritted teeth, “I'll cooperate. What do you want?”

The doctor smiled and pressed on a button on the side of his chair, and the restraints around Tony's arms opened with a hiss. He stumbled out of them quickly, tearing the tube out of his arm as soon as he could, and had to catch himself when his legs almost collapsed under his weight.

He staggered behind the doctor, and they walked along a corridor and stopped in front of a door guarded by two heavily armed men, who didn't spare a glance toward them, even as the door slid open, and _hello_ , that was some state of the art reinforcement there...

Tony didn't have much time to wonder what they were protecting so well before he saw it. Well, him.

There was no doubt who the security measures were destined to. The man was sitting down, bare-chested, head bowed, yet he still managed to look like the most dangerous person in the room. And Tony was obviously not the only one with this impression, because the half-dozen guards positioned around them all had their weapon trained on him.

He was looking at the tiled floor with the kind of empty intent that could only be attributed to drugs, and his powerful musculature was apparently relaxed. But what really drew Tony's attention was his arm – more specifically, his left arm. It seemed to be entirely made of metal, up to his shoulder, where the junction with his skin was covered in raised scars.

How was it even possible? Nobody could make such a realistic looking prosthesis. It perfectly mimicked the curb of the muscles that should have been there. And it worked, too: just as he was watching, the man lifted it to put it on a table set on his left. The movement was slightly jerky, but it was still far more fluid than anything current technology should have allowed.

The doctor made an impatient gesture, reminding Tony of his presence, and one of the guards lowered his weapon to bring a stool in front of the arm. Though his full-face helmet should maybe have hidden it, his demeanor clearly showed how afraid he was to come closer to the sitting man. It was almost comical, really, how tense everyone was in front of someone who was both half-naked and clearly drugged to the gills.

Suddenly, Tony stumbled forwards, clutching his ribs: one of the guards had propelled him toward the stool by hitting him with the barrel of his weapon. Understanding, a bit late, what he was here for, the engineer sat down and bent over the metal limb.

Someone put a small tool kit beside him, but nobody seemed to be carrying any schematics. He frowned and asked aloud, “What do you want me to do?”

“Repair it,” the doctor answered laconically.

Closing his mouth on a smart-ass quip that would probably have earned him a beating if he had voiced it, Tony took a deep breath.

“I can't do it like that. I need more information on this thing. How does it even works? How is it linked to this guy?”

“I have faith in your abilities, Mr. Stark. You have three hours.”

And with that, the doctor turned and walked out of the room, leaving Tony alone with a drugged cyborg and seven tense guards.

  


About half an hour later, Tony was starting to think that he was missing a few pieces of the puzzle.

After the departure of the doctor, he had started working on the paneling of the arm, trying to open it without damaging the delicate circuitry hidden behind. It was hard, especially since he was trying to keep an eye on the owner of the arm at the same time to check that he wasn't hurting him. He had no idea whether this thing was wired into the other's nervous system, but he wasn't taking any chance.

But the longer he worked, the more he was assaulted by a strong sensation of _déjà vu_. He knew this device, he was already familiar with it, no way it was the first time that he worked on it.

Yet he couldn't remember ever seeing anything of the sort. And he wouldn't have just forgotten about it: it was too distinctive, as complex and elegant, in its own way, as his father latest – no, _last_ – weapons.

And that man, the one wearing the arm, who was he? Tony would have thought that he was working for the owners of the place if it wasn't for everyone's obvious fear of him. His posture and behavior – he hadn't moved an inch since Tony had started working – made him look as harmless as someone of his stature could look, yet in thirty minutes none of the guards had relaxed even a little bit. That kind of dedication spoke less of work ethic and more of sheer terror.

But he couldn't be a prisoner, or they would never have asked Tony to repair his arm. The thing was a weapon, that much was obvious. The alloy it was made of was incredibly tough, and if the servos were any indication, it could probably crush metal.

However, as he removed more of the external panels, some details added another few questions to his list. The design of the device was extremely smart, that was a given. So why were they using such an outdated power source? The battery was an old model, they could easily have found something more efficient, or, you know, less likely to leak into the guy's veins and poison him.

The one in the arm was already old and corroded; Tony switched it with a newer one that was among the tools he had been given, mindful of the numerous wires he was jostling.

Then he turned to the small mechanical parts that had been worn down by the movement of the arm. It was stupid: by tweaking the design only a little bit, he could have made the metal limb much more durable simply by reducing the friction between them. Strangely enough, those particular parts hadn't been made from the same material as the outside of the arm, but from a different, softer alloy, which wouldn't resist the wear for long.

It was almost as if the arm had been designed to break down after a few days.

It made sense. If they were so afraid of the guy attached to the arm, they needed a way to control him. If he was left without maintenance, his arm would completely stop working after a few days, and the battery would start poisoning him not long after that.

It was terrible, but very well thought-out. At least if it was their intent: maybe it was just the result of shoddy craftsmanship and budget cuts...

Unfortunately, he didn't have the time or the materials necessary to fix the design.

And none of this told him why everything felt so familiar. How could he have forgotten about something like that?

Maybe these people had a way to erase his memories. Just thinking about it made him sick: no one should be able to mess with his mind. But in an odd way, it was also sort of reassuring: it meant that his odds of getting out of there alive were much higher than what he had previously thought...

He needed a way to remember. A way to make a note. Because if he had already been here before, this time would probably not be the last time, and no way he was letting mad scientists play with his brain and use him to repair this piece of shit. He needed to burn this place to the ground.

And maybe get the weird guy attached to the arm out of there, too, because he looked at least as much of a victim as Tony. He had a weird way of leaning into every touch, as if he was seeking a comfort that Tony wasn't in any position to provide.

That or he was completely smashed, which, given the way he was blinking hazily at the tiles, was also a very real possibility.

  


Two hours and a half later, he still hadn't made any progress in developing a viable escape plan. He had finished repairing the arm in less than two hours, but wasn't exactly in a hurry to point out to his captors that he had outlived his usefulness.

He knew that he couldn't use the tools that they had given him: at least one of the guards had been watching him since the beginning, and his vigilance didn't seem to be flagging. Besides, even if that wasn't the case, they still had guns, he was outnumbered, and he was pretty sure that Rhodey's lessons about self-defense wouldn't be enough to protect him.

He was _fucked_.

Even if he was pretty sure that they weren't going to kill him when he was done, he didn't want them to just erase his memory, let him go, and then do it again later. He wanted to at least know that something had happened. Maybe if he placed his hands just like that, he could...

Yeah, that would work. Or at least attract his own attention later.

Half an hour later, he didn't protest when the doctor, apparently satisfied with his work, lead him back to the room he had woken up in. Now that he could have a good look at it, the chair that had restrained him at first looked like a torture device, the large metal clamp designed to go around his limbs gleaming in the cold light. He already knew that they were wired to deliver electric shocks to whoever was unlucky enough to annoy the doctor, but he hadn't noticed the weird metallic device that seemed designed to go around the head.

And now that he had, he didn't like the look of them even a little bit.

But one of the guards had come with them and had the muzzle of his weapons pointed at the back of Tony's head, so the engineer chose the smart option and obeyed when the doctor asked him to sit down. Now he just had to hope that his little memo would be enough...

With a whirring sound, the device locked itself around his forehead.

  


-

  


“Tony? Tony! Wake up!”

“Go away, Rhodey...” he mumbled in his pillow.

Well, actually, it sounded more like “G'way R'dey”, but his friend was used to deciphering his muttering, even those uttered when he was barely conscious.

His head was pounding. He felt like someone had drilled holes into his skull. Was it his hangover? It didn't feel like a hangover, but then again, he had probably broken his personal record in alcohol consuming the night before...

His left wrist ached. Squinting to avoid the light as much as he could, he brought it in front of his eyes.

Carved in the soft flesh was a small red star.

  


* * *

  


His handlers were watching the news. On the screen, a man, standing in front of a room full of micros and cameras, was still talking, despite the uproar that his words were causing.

The soldier didn't care about that. It wasn't important: what was much more interesting, was that he remembered that man, bending over his metal arm, despite the fact that he had only just been wiped. The doctors never left him anything that wasn't necessary.

And there was something else, something that he couldn't define in term of mission parameters, that told him that he _knew_ the man, and that the man was good news. That he was waiting almost _eagerly_ – a sentiment that he had all but forgotten about – for their next meeting.

But the handlers looked restless. They were talking now, no, arguing, and the soldier couldn't help listening to them when he understood what they were saying.

“Of course it changes things!” one of them hissed. “He has a fucking suit of armor now, do you think that we can just grab him off the street like before?”

“But who is going to do maintenance on the soldier now?” another one answered in a growl.

“I don't care, we'll find some smart kid, maybe even one that is actually working for us,” the first one retorted. “Anyway, the idea of kidnapping one of the richest, most famous men on this planet to do such a basic task so often has always been a stupid one. It's time we find something a little easier!”

They were talking about his mechanic. Numbly, the soldier gripped the arm of the chair so hard that he could feel them buckling under the pressure on _both_ sides; fortunately, nobody in the room was paying him any attention while he was restrained. He wasn't supposed to have _opinion_ _s_ about what his masters did to him...

Suddenly, a phone ringed, interrupting the handlers' bickering. One of them picked it up and listened for a while, then barked “Yes, sir!” and hung up.

“Stark is now a potential target. We need to reprogram the soldier.”

  


Later, after the wipe, a handler thrust a picture in front of the soldier.

“Who is that, soldier?” he asked.

The soldier blinked. Though the man felt vaguely familiar, he couldn't remember ever meeting him. Was it a test?

“I don't know,” he answered eventually.

It seemed to satisfy the handler.

“Designation: Tony Stark. Potential target level 6. Do not engage: you will be briefed before being sent after him.”

The soldier repeated the words by rote, uninterested. Potential targets weren't important. He would remember the man's face, but for now, he didn't care about him.

  


  


A few days after that, back from his last mission, the soldier sat down in his usual chair and waited for maintenance to start.

When a young man, who had to be fresh out of college if he wasn't still there, took the seat in front of him, he didn't understand. The man wasn't _his_ mechanic.

After a few minutes, the feeling faded. It still didn't feel right, but no matter how much he raked his brain, he couldn't understand _why_ he felt so strongly that the kid should have been replaced by someone else... Or who should have been in his place either.

But he was used to not understanding things, so it was alright.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Tony's phone was ringing. It happened a lot, these days. Ever since the mess with SHIELD (and HYDRA, of course), since Pepper had hired Maria Hill (“Someone need to pick up the pieces, Tony, and would you really trust anyone else now?”), he had apparently become a major player among intelligence agencies.

Not that it wasn't the case before, but at the time other people hadn't really known about JARVIS' “incursions” behind their firewall..

Still, the constant flow of people trying to get his attention was starting to annoy him, so at first he ignored the call.

“Sir,” JARVIS said after a few rings, “you might be interested by this one. I identified the number calling as Mrs. Romanov's.”

Startled, he straightened. It was his first contact with any Avenger other than Bruce since they had gone their separate way after the Chitauris, and Hill had been very tight lipped about what the other people involved in taking down SHIELD were up to. He had eventually understood that Rogers, Romanov and Wilson were looking for someone. Who? What for? Nobody knew.

He had extended to them a standing invitation to his tower, even for Wilson, who despite not having fought with them in New York looked like a good guy (besides, Rhodey had vouched for him, and Tony was _very_ interested in his wings), but hadn't heard back from them before this call, so they had to have a good reason to call him now...

“Romanov,” he said in lieu of greeting after accepting the call. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your dulcet tones?”

“Stark,” she answered shortly. “Is your invitation still valid?”

“Of course it is,” he said, almost offended. “When will you be here and how many of you are there?”

“We're already in New York, in Brooklyn, so no more than ninety minutes.” She sounded tired, even more than after the Chitauris (and hadn't _that_ been a shit show). “You have enough room for four people?”

“Four people?” Tony frowned. “I knew about capsicle and flyboy, but who's the fourth?”

“It's... complicated. We shouldn't talk about that on the phone,” she replied.

“Okay, just come through the front door, JARVIS will lead you to the penthouse.”

  


As promised, an hour later, JARVIS notified him that his guests had arrived; giving in to curiosity, Tony asked him to show the camera feed of the elevator. Like he had expected, he could recognize Romanov, Rogers and Wilson, but he was completely unable to put a name on their companion.

The stranger was tall and broad enough to be identified as male, but his long hair and ratty hoodie hid his face. His hands were in his pockets, and his right arm was linked through Rogers' left one. _Interesting._ Was he the man they all had been looking for? He didn't look like someone who could run away from the infamous Black Widow for very long: his posture, leaning against the wall in an ungraceful slouch, made his weariness obvious, and he winced when the elevator stopped, which was stupid because Tony's elevator never gave anyone anything but the smoothest ride, _fuck you very much_.

Rising to his feet, the engineer switched off his holographic display and walked to the bar. When his guests reached the room, he was pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“You guys want something?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Romanov, vodka?”

She nodded and gave him a small grateful smile. Shit, things had to be much worst than he initially thought, if she was that tired...

“Do you have some beer?” Wilson asked hopefully.

While he got out his best vodka and a bottle of some microbrew Pepper was fond of, he turned to the two other men, who still hadn't moved or spoken.

“What about you, Spangles?”

Rogers did his weird eyebrow thing that probably meant he was trying not to take offense. “Alcohol doesn't work on me,” he answered.

“Well, your loss,” Tony winced, because _ouch,_ when you lost your entire world like the captain had done in the ice, not being able to get drunk _sucked_. “And Mr. Mystery Guest?”

The man didn't react to the address, but Rogers stepped forwards protectively. Probably sensing how tense the situation had suddenly become – for god's sake, Tony hadn't even been making fun of any of them! – the Black Widow intervened, “He needs medical assistance, and we were wondering if you could take a look at his arm.”

His arm? What was she talking about? Tony was definitely not that kind of doctor...

Then the stranger raised his left hand, uncovering the most beautiful prosthetic limb Tony had ever seen.

“It's not working properly,” the man explained, his voice low and scratchy and miserable.

And god, if that was what it moved like when it wasn't working, Tony _really_ wanted to know how it looked like when it did. But his owner actually looked in pain, so maybe it wasn't as good as it looked.

“I can help,” Tony offered after a few moments of reflexion. “What is wrong with it?”

“ _Everything_. Please take it off from me,” the other pleaded, looking the engineer in the eyes for the first time since his arrival.

He looked exhausted and desperate, and Tony didn't even think about refusing. “Now?” he still asked, because maybe the guy wanted some time to rest before the removal of the limb.

But the man just nodded gratefully. Rogers didn't seem pleased, but not surprised either, so he had probably been expecting it. “We'll explain everything,” the captain promised, “but please... It's hurting him.”

Yeah, Tony had kinda understood that.

“I'll do what I can. Wait, I've got an idea! JARVIS, bring up the schematic for project Red Star. Tell me,” he asked the guy, “what would you think about a replacement? And what's your name, by the way? I can't keep calling you “weird guy” in my head...”

Obediently, JARVIS start up the holographic display and showed the aforementioned blueprints. Externally, the interlocking plates looked a lot like the ones of the prosthetic he had in front of his eyes, but he was pretty sure that the internal machinery had nothing in common with his own designs, which integrated the arc reactor technology among some more classic circuitry.

This project actually had a pretty interesting story: he had started working on it not long after his parents' death, after waking up with the weirdest hangover of his life, his head hurting and his wrist itching – how he had scratched himself in such a distinctive way, he had no idea, but it had inspired the name of the project – and had started sketching the first draft of a prosthetic arm straight away. He had even still been half-drunk at the time, or the design wouldn't have been so full of little flaws that would have made the limb break down after a few days; but a few tweaks later, it was as perfect as any piece of technology ever was.

He had improved it over the years, and the only reason why it wasn't yet on the market was because it involved vibranium in a way that he hadn't been able to circumvent. But since he had signed a deal with king T'Challa from Wakanda for his armors, he had enough to build a model.

Well, he would as soon as someone explained to him who the guy was, he reminded himself. Scientific curiosity shouldn't take a backseat to basic caution: he wasn't arming (ha, pun) a man whose name he didn't even know.

“Mr. Stark, this is James Barnes,” Rogers answered in the man's place when it became obvious that he wasn't going to answer himself. “He's my friend.”

Well, that was some interesting credits...Wait, James Barnes? As in James Buchanan Barnes? Cap's best friend, dead-in-1944 Bucky Barnes? _That_ hadn't been in the leaked files...

“He was also brainwashed into a HYDRA operative for a few decades,” Romanov added, ignoring Rogers' death glare. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Depends, is he going to murder me in my sleep?” Tony shrugged, appreciating her bluntness. He wasn't going to throw these guys out, but the heads-up would help JARVIS to find everything they had about the guy so that Tony could make an informed decision. But he could already make a couple of informed guesses and match the metal arm with the one in the description of Nick Fury's assassin.

“I won't,” Barnes answered in a soft voice, eyes downcast, his body language strangely subdued.

“Then we've got no problem,” Tony said, and it was even true – or at least for now. “But I still want an explanation...”

  


Tony had been wrong. Tony had been very, very wrong.

The internal machinery of Barnes' metal arm was _exactly_ the same as the ones in his very first draft for his own design.

It didn't make any sense: Barnes hadn't been very forthcoming with his answers – though Tony knew that the other man's memories were unreliable at best – but he was pretty sure that there hadn't been any major changes to his arm since at least the sixties, which meant that his arm couldn't possibly have been inspired by Tony's design, which in turn meant that Tony's design had to have been inspired by Barnes' arm.

Had something happened after his parents death, while he was too drunk to remember?

He didn't tell any of the others about it: it was too unsettling, and if Barnes had known anything about it, he would have said something. He didn't even replace the arm himself, citing his dislike of the “wet sciences” as the reason why he asked Bruce to do it instead (a complete lie: with the arc reactor, he had been forced to learn a _lot_ about interfaces between the human body and various metallic devices). Instead, he retreated to the penthouse, leaving to JARVIS the task of showing his guests to their quarters.

He needed to think.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Five days later, Tony forgot about his resolve to stay away from Barnes.

“No, no, no! What the hell are you doing, Cap?”

Rogers turned to face him, his eyebrows raised. “What do you want, Stark?”

Tony sighed. “I don't know who told you about Star Wars, but they didn't do a very good job of it. You don't start with _The Phantom Menace_. JARVIS, start _A New Hope_ instead.”

He circled the couch and realized that what he had thought to be an empty half of the couch was occupied by Barnes, who had slouched down until his feet were on Rogers' lap. Well, too late to leave now: if he did, they would probably believe that he was afraid of the former winter soldier, which was not the case. JARVIS had been scrutinizing the man's behavior for anything indicating aggressiveness since he had set foot in the tower, to no avail.

“Move over,” he said instead, shooing Barnes toward Rogers. Without waiting, he wedged himself between Barnes and the armrest and put his hand on the other's shoulder. “It's much better to start with this one.”

He ignored studiously Rogers' startled gaze. He was Tony Stark: he wasn't going to start respecting people's personal space now... Besides, Barnes hadn't even twitched. If anything, he was leaning slightly against him...

“Are we watching Star Wars? And you didn't call me! Steve, I thought that we were friends!” Wilson called, shattering the moment. Barnes straightened and Rogers looked away from them, but Tony had felt it.

  


* * *

  


After that, Tony tried to be a little more present with Barnes.

“Hey, Barnes, how strong are you without the arm?” he asked one day.

Barnes, who had been reading in Rogers' living room, paled.

“Why?” he answered. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, absolutely not!” Tony backed immediately. “I just wanted to know. Cap said that you probably have a version of the serum...”

“Steve,” Barnes interrupted.

“I'm sorry?”

“His name is Steve, and he hates being called “Cap”,” Barnes said. “He thinks that people who call him like that don't see the real him.” He frowned. “He didn't tell me that. How...?”

“Well I'm no expert, but that's probably good if you remember things about him?” Tony smiled. “And I'll call him by his name when he stop calling me “Mr. Stark”. What about you, how do you want me to call you?”

Barnes seemed surprised by the question and had to take a few moments to think.

“Bucky is fine,” he shrugged. “I like it.”

“Alright Bucky, you can call me Tony, then. Or Stark, if you don't want to be too familiar, but honestly, I don't give a fuck. Can you lift two hundred pounds?”

To his utter delight, Bucky only lifted an eyebrow in answer, managing to wordlessly convey “please, is that even a question”.

“Come with me, then, I need someone to help me with my car...”

  


Bucky was fun to work with. He was smart – not a genius per se, but he learned fast and he liked the maths – and interested in anything that he could put his hands on. Tony soon got used to having him in the workshop when he wasn't working on classified project: in these occasions, he started explaining aloud what he was doing so that his audience could follow along, helping when he needed another (or a stronger) pair of hands.

It was around this time that Steve finally started calling him Tony, but the engineer didn't know if it was out of gratitude or if Bucky had talked some sense into him.

Anyway, the new routine was nice. Bucky wasn't always with him, far from it, but when he was he provided some human company and a regular reminder that Tony should eat a real meal and take a few hours of sleep.

Which is why, when Bucky fucked up some of the finer motor control in his metal hand by leaving it on a hotplate, he went to Tony for repairs instead of Bruce.

“This feel familiar. Why does this feel familiar? I don't understand,” Tony complained while removing the exterior paneling of the hand.

“How would I know?” Bucky shrugged. “Maybe it's like working on your armor?”

“Maybe,” Tony muttered, unconvinced. He couldn't for the life of him understand _why_ he felt that way, and he hated not knowing. It felt like he had the answer on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came... Annoying. _And_ it probably had to do with the similitude between his designs and Bucky's former arm.

They stayed silent for a few minutes, and then Bucky added, “It's easier when you're the one doing it.”

“Doing what?” Tony frowned, surprised.

“Working on my arm,” Bucky said softly. “I have so many bad memories associated to this... But with you, it's not so bad. I don't know how you do it.”

Tony smirked, pleased. “Are you saying that I have a calming influence on you? You need to say that to Pepper, she'll never believe it...”

“It's not that! It's just that with you I feel safer... Don't laugh!” he scowled.

“Sorry, I'm very flattered, it's just that it sounds very sappy when you say that... You're not going to follow that with a heartfelt confession, are you?”

Bucky ducked his head and didn't answer.

“Wait, really?” Tony asked, startled. “I had no idea! I mean, I like you, but we barely know each other, and I hadn't pegged you as a one-night-stands kind of guy...”

“I know that you let me into your home when you had no reason to trust me, that you spend a lot of time with me even though you should probably hate me, and that you're the only one here who doesn't tiptoe around me and who actually touch me... I know that it's kinda sudden, I didn't want to make uncomfortable, I can leave if you want,” Bucky finished with a depreciating smile.

“Absolutely not!” Tony said. “Are you kidding me? You should have told me ages ago, I would have taken you somewhere else than the workshop if I had known that you wanted to date...”

This time, Bucky's answering smile was a real one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I'm really not satisfied with this ending so I'll probably write more at some point, but in the meantime you should read the other fics of the winteriron bang, some of them are really good!


End file.
